Appetizer
by mimeo
Summary: This was written for the Dreamwidth Hannibal kink meme in 2013. Prompt: "Hannibal invites Will to some event that involves formal dress. Will shows up in a horrible cheap suit that doesn't fit or flatter him in any way shape or form. This offends Hannibal to such a degree that he cuts the suit off his body seam by seam and strip of fabric by strip of fabric with a scalpel."


This was written for the Dreamwidth Hannibal kink meme in 2013.  
Prompt: "Hannibal invites Will to some event that involves formal dress. Will shows up at his house in a horrible cheap suit that doesn't fit or flatter him in any way, shape or form. This offends Hannibal to such a degree that he cuts the suit off his body, seam by seam and strip of fabric by strip of fabric, with a scalpel. bonus if they are not together and have never even held hands with each other before this event but shit gets rul hot rul quick."

The doorbell rings thirty four minutes before the time the invitation indicated.

Of course Will is early. He'd want to have a chat before the rest of the guests arrive, before their banal smalltalk nearly kills his appetite, before their firm handshakes and searing eyes and boastful laughs overload him and make him fall silent and regret showing up. It's quite a victory to even have him attend, antisocial little creature he is. He rarely does anything he doesn't feel obligated to. Hannibal smirks, setting the last platter of appetizers down on the island platform in the center of the kitchen before washing his hands and donning his suit jacket to answer the door. He can't help but let the welcoming curve of his lips fall slack at the sight before him.

Dark brown, darkest brown, so dark you have to do a triple-take to make certain it's not black, but brown nonetheless. Brown. Horrid. The shoulders are too broad, sloping and swallowing Will. It's obvious the belt is the only thing keeping the pants up; their hems nearly pool at his ankles in a pile of folds. Why, the jacket sleeves even inch past his shirt cuffs, down to his scraped knuckles. The suit does nothing to hint at the narrow waist or the musculature that always hides by way of terrible posture or a closet full of similarly-ill-fitting sport vests and tattered jackets. His glasses hang on the front where a pocket square should be. Just above a loosely-knotted and crumpled black necktie, the top button of his white dress shirt is undone; a sign of habit or just plain comfortable carelessness.

Hannibal is so taken aback he's forgotten to greet him, only silently scrutinizing until Will begins to shift his weight from foot to foot, eyes darting nervously to the floor and past into the entry hall, hand at the back of his neck to ruffle his hair.

"Is-"

"I'm afraid this is unacceptable." Hannibal uses the first two words to sugarcoat the declaration, to feign remorse for what he is about to do. But there's no other choice, really. Of course Will's daily wear is nothing stellar, but one of the aspects of tonight Hannibal had been looking forward to most was finally seeing him spruced up. He had already imagined the other colleagues he had invited, the people who knew Will, patting Will's shoulder and joking about how he "cleaned up nice." Hell, maybe he'd even shave for once. But no. This is a terrible letdown.

Will has the audacity to step forward through the open door, squeezing past Hannibal while forming half-assed apologies soured with the tone of offense taken. Hannibal shuts the door with his left hand while his right shoots behind, the other direction, to grab Will by the throat. He's pinned up against the wall so hard the picture frames in the next room clatter. Hannibal looks him over once more, closer this time, thumbing the fabric with his free hand, narrow eyes getting narrower by the second.

"Yes. Utterly unacceptable."

As much as he wants to drag Will by the ear like a naughty child, he wisely keeps the grip on his throat instead to lead him into the next room. Will's still trying to talk, a crushed gurgle coming out as a result of his efforts. All the curtains are closed. The dining room is dimly lit by candles and soft light. He's spun around and slammed onto the dining table, face-up, legs kicking over centerpieces and rumpling the tablecloth.

"I'm sorry," he nearly yelps, arms extended and gripping at Hannibal's shoulder. The other man leans back, interested to hear the details of this more genuine apology. "I don't... I don't go to many of these things." Will swallows, looking positively shocked that he managed to get a sentence out without being choked or otherwise silenced. Even more shocked that that sentence was not _whatthefuckareyoudoing._ "I didn't have an-... I thought this would b-" He's hyperventilating now, deep quick wheezing breaths interrupting his own sentences until he loses them completely and starts another. Next his eyes are shut tight, no doubt a simultaneous attempt to ground himself and to see through Hannibal's eyes, to diffuse the situation in realtime. The babbling does not stop. Hannibal is not amused.

He grabs one of the crown-folded white napkins off the nearest place setting and crams it so far into Will's mouth Hannibal thinks he feels the corners of his lips crack and the roof of his mouth come down on his knuckles. Will's hands are pinned over his head. The doorbell rings. Will's eyes widen but the pupils constrict. There's a moment of contemplation as Hannibal pauses and glances down at the rug, but he's already begun. He'll think of some excuse and some adequate apology to his other guests later. Maybe add another entree to do away with this fresh meat.

Will's wriggling free from his grip and clawing at his arms again, putting up a fight that is manageable yet distracting. Something should be done about that. The tie, naturally, is the first to go, yanked from his neck then slipped around his wrists. Hannibal uses it to stretch Will's arms up above his head as far as they will go, then hastily knots the end of the tie around the table leg. Sure, it's possible to flip the table and try to make it to safety dragging the thing behind you, but in this position - Will's body stretched as taut as possible, Hannibal's knees pinned tight against his sides until his ribs feel crushed - the restraint does its job and discourages any further rebellion. Hannibal slides down off of Will, standing next to the table before slowing circling it. He doesn't bother holding down Will's legs; the man has resigned for now, trying so desperately to think straight and quell his panic before making another move.

Hannibal pulls a scalpel out from under his sleeve. This doesn't deserve the kitchen knives or any of the other tools in his arsenal; this is a procedure, the removal of a cancer, the removal of a tumor marring Will. A terrible, brown, wool, off-the-rack tumor.

Pinching the hem of the sleeve with two fingers, Hannibal drags the small shining blade slowly down the seam, under Will's armpit, down his side. Even through these layers he can feel the heat, imagine what his lungs look like as they struggle, imagine what his heart looks like as his pulse quickens. The doorbell rings again.

"Of course you don't participate in many formal affairs," he begins, speaking clearly and conversationally. "I have known you long enough to know you are a homebody. But, on the other hand-" Swooping methodically to the other side of the table to cut along the opposite line, "Surely you've knowledge of my personal standards of dress." The sleeves are gone now. "This is just hurtful." Hannibal's only half-joking. The scalpel glides along Will's waistband and down to the seam along his thigh, each ripped stitch making a popping sound that he can just barely hear over the thump of his own heartbeat in his ears. This is absurd. This must be a prank. The uncharacteristic behavior of his friend clouds his thought process, makes it harder to empathize or react or diffuse or defend. When he tips his head up, his pants are being cast aside.

Dragging the scalpel down in a motion that slides it under each button and severs the threads holding it, Hannibal reveals Will's undershirt. That, too, is cut along the seams, Will's heaving chest making each movement more difficult. Instead of neatly removing the article, he slashes this one up with swift arcs of his arm, coming down and through and then back again, like a pendulum. Every movement makes Will flinch more violently, keen louder into the makeshift gag, dig his fingernails into his palms above. Hannibal moves to stand at the head of the table. A cold hand pressed to Will's cheek finally makes his eyes open. The fingers trail along his jawline. He's looking up, upsidedown, at Hannibal. Big blue watery eyes into thoughtful narrow black ones.

This is it. This is the moment. This is the moment to jab the scalpel into his neck, his thumping pulse, to rupture that jugular as the final act in this play of punishment. But there's something stopping Hannibal. He vividly imagines every step, every subsequent slash or slow drag of the blade, every ensuing whimper and gurgle, the warm blood spilling over his hands, the muscle, the tendons, but he simply cannot bear to imagine the hypothetical moment that the light falls from Will's eyes and his body, this succulent body in front of him, goes limp with the sleep of death. It's never bothered him before; there have been dozens of specimens in peak physical form. Eye candy, if you please. But all they inspired in him was anticipatory fervor for the meal they would eventually make. This is different. There is something about the mere possibility of Will failing to exist that disconcerts him.

It's not often that Hannibal is unsure of himself or his intentions, but the moment doesn't last long. In his pause, he has come to view Will's body in a new light. Cheeks and chest flushed pink, skin glistening with the cold sweat of panic and fear, blue veins pushing against the pale skin of his wrists and arms. Abdomen heaving with laboured breaths. At half-mast under the paper-thin layer of his baggy grey boxers. The last observation is only slightly surprising to Hannibal, though it serves as enough confirmation to initiate the back-up plan brewing in his mind.

"I don't think my message has gotten through to you, Will." Still nonchalant and conversational, even amused, he moves to the side of the table once more. The scalpel dances over the faint beginnings of a six-pack, dipping down the iliac furrow until the cold threatening steel makes Will's hips squirm. "I am not seeing adequate remorse." With a flick of his wrist the scalpel nicks a cut along Will's hip, no worse than a cat scratch, but enough to draw forth a thin solid line of blood. Will flinches and sinks his teeth into the cloth napkin, soggy with saliva. Hannibal continues.

"I take presentation..." The blade circles lightly around Will's navel, dragging along his sternum, then following the path of an imaginary Y-shaped autopsy cut. "Very..." The blade is turned on its side, pressed flat against a hardening nipple. "Seriously." Another flick of his wrist, another droplet of blood, another harmless little nick, but this one leaves Will writhing and letting out a muffled cry. Hannibal glances down again. Full-mast. Peculiar. Time to do away with those ratty boxers...

The blade snakes up against Will's inner thigh, pushing under the fabric until it bunches up and the scalpel lifts up past the elastic waistband. The doorbell rings again, this time thrice in quick succession. _Rude._ Hannibal severs the boxers from band to hem in one move. He nearly expects a lewd cartoon "boing" sound to ring through the room, given the forcefulness and eagerness with which Will's cock springs forth. It's flushed pink, just like his chest and shoulders and face. At last Hannibal returns the scalpel to his sleeve. Curiously, he trails a fingertip up along Will's frenulum. There's a muffled gasp, and when he looks up Will's neck is craned as far as it can be, staring down at his every move with the most perfectly delectable expression of confusion and horror. It's so delightful, Hannibal decides to press his luck. To hear those cries and gasps as they were meant to be heard. He removes the wadded napkin from Will's mouth.

"Why-" He has to stop to lick his lips and gulp, to find his voice again. "Stop." His voice wavers. He's shaking. He's positively trembling. With fear or with need?

"A simple request. But I cannot comply." Hannibal's fingers curl around Will's cock and when his thumb passes over the slit, the man's back arches so much that his head involuntarily tips back and his ribs are outlined below his skin. "Your choices warrant punishment, Will."

"Stop." He doesn't beg. He doesn't say "please." He knows that's probably what Hannibal wants. "St- _ahhh-_ " A full stroke this time, languid, slicking down the precome. Will's biting his lip and squirming like a cornered animal now. Hannibal's unoccupied hand begins to smooth over the flesh of Will's thighs, feel the muscles tense, trail a thumb along the creases where his legs meet his body. When that hand creeps lower, under the other still hard at work, Will actually spreads his legs and bends his knees, feet flat against the table now.

"Well that's just shameless..." Hannibal mutters under his breath. Will's whining now, unintelligible little mewls, though these are pleas of a different flavour of desperation. His eyes have shut tight again, perhaps unable to confront the scene in front of him. As much as he tries to dissociate and distance himself from his body, its urges ground him. Hannibal cups an ass cheek in his left hand, his other fingers working Will's shaft. It's dry, but it'll get the job done. Besides, he's nearly finished. Any second now. His hand slides farther, middle finger curling between Will's cheeks until his cries are louder, frantic, concerned at what may follow. Hannibal's moving so fast now that a few slick strands of hair finally fall out of place and across his face. Heel of his hand pressing lightly against the perineum, he crooks his middle finger and traces small circles. At last this elicits a strand of expletives he'd been waiting for, the breathy and weak little "fuck, fuck, no, god _oh_ god, shit, g- _ahhh-_ "

Hannibal pushes harder, middle finger breaching the entrance, not far, still just toying, really, but that alone is enough to make Will come. _Tsk tsk._ His hips buck. The sound that comes out of him is not a word but it is loud enough that any poor souls still waiting out on the doorstep will definitely hear it. His back remains arched as the warm white stream erupts in short spurts onto his stomach. His mouth hangs open, sharp eyeteeth on display then gritted tight as he comes back down and forgets how to breathe. He is beautiful. Every broken shard of him shines, like a stained-glass window in a church but five times more divine than one could ever hope to be. He is shattered in a new way.

Hannibal unties Will's wrists, entirely confident that the man will not move a muscle. Indeed, Will only stares up at the low-hanging chandelier, mouth slightly agape, jaw slack, eyes distant and clouded, colour draining from his face, purple bags under his eyes dotted with miniscule beads of sweat. How many more ways can the world find to break him? Hannibal slides up onto the table once more, straddling Will's knees. After one last look at the scene laid out before him, he leans down to erase the erratic trail of come with a single efficient lick, warm tongue pressed to sensitive skin.

Somehow it is better than any of the desserts he had on the menu that night.


End file.
